


T n' I

by nisachara



Category: Naruto
Genre: Mangetsu in T&I, Other, Torture, just another day in Kiri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 15:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14358519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nisachara/pseuds/nisachara
Summary: Tumblr prompt 'Monster Teeth' - just needed an excuse to write a bit of Mangetsu having some fun in the T n' I Division.





	T n' I

Prisons were like any other prisons, he thinks, slurping water over the sound of screams carrying down the stone walled hallway. He’s been to quite a few, all visits voluntary. They were all dark and dingy and imposing and hyper-masculine in structure. They were sparse and square and pointedly depressing-- meant to psychologically box you in. Oh, and they _reeked_ : piss and shit and vomit over the musty smell of mold and that coppery tang in the air. Kiri’s was no different.

He looks away from the wall in front of him, feet spreading wider as he slides lower in his seat, slouching. Someone’s coming his way down the hall, and he recognizes the footfall: it was the same ANBU that had called him over.

“Hōzuki-san.”

He deigns to look up.

“It’s time.”

“Ah.” It’s a grunt, more than anything. He’s already on his feet, replacing his bottle in his belt. He knows where to go; been there a few times. “Go all the way or no?” he asks the man following close behind.

“Long enough for a confession.”

There’s obvious disappointment and he makes this little noise in his throat, but eh, a job’s a job.

It’s a short lackadaisical walk to the cell and Mangetsu stands just outside, watching the man in it. It’s a swill of emotion that he feels at the sight—all negative, mostly disgust.

It takes a bit for him to settle: he knows the guy.

It’s no surprise, though. He’d been told. But even so, seeing things from the other side of the metal bars was something. It drove things home, made it all the more real.

Lately all they’ve been taking into the torture and interrogation unit were their own people. _Fuckin’ paranoia_ , he thinks, pushing the latch on the door of the cell open and stepping inside. He could have easily slipped right in between the bars but it’s not something he feels like expending chakra on. _Fuckin’ Yagura_ , he adds, mentally. Now there’s a sentiment Mangetsu wouldn’t dare utter out loud. But he’s more than aware that the guy sitting tied up to a chair in front of him was just as guilty. He’s read all the evidence, and he might have borne witness to a chunk of it. _Fuckin’ traitors_. Hell they had so many of them in Kiri it was a fucking infestation. But what do you do when the village is fucked up anyway? That’s right—try and get out or get even. Neither of which was the smart thing to do if you were going about it the wrong way, or if you were going to get caught.

But this one—this one’s a special kind of disgusting. It wasn’t your run of the mill case of defection. It wasn’t another dumbass trying to make a coup happen without the funds, strings, backing or a _clue_. It wasn’t even the kind of traitor that sold secrets or swords or blueprints. The man in the chair? He was the kind of scum that sold people: children with special attributes ripe for the picking.

And Mangetsu knows they’ve only got their hands on a small fry.

They’ll take what they can, though. Try and crack that ring. Keep the kids home even if things at home weren’t ideal. You couldn’t have hope in a new Kirigakure if you let someone steal its future.

Mangetsu passes a glance at the empty table next to the man and huffs a laugh—No blades. Not a single one tonight. Usually they got him all excited with a tray full of equipment, but it made sense that they weren’t offering him that today. They wanted the guy alive. “Guess there ain’t no lingchi tonight then.” It tugs a grin out of him, pointed teeth in full view even as he leans forward, hands on the man’s thighs, the entire weight of his body making itself known, nearly nose to nose as he pushes his face into the prisoner’s. “Well, aren’t _you_ the lucky one~”

A whimper behind the gag pushed halfway down the guy’s throat is the only response he gets besides the somewhat desperate struggle to free his wrists from the cuffs that bound them to the arms of the chair.

Those teeth— those demonic, monster teeth. They were a testament to how much blood was on his hands, and how much blood he was willing to spill. They were a testament to how far removed he was from being human, of having a heart that was hollowed out and incapable of feeling anything but lust for blood. They were a testament to the viciousness of Kirigakure, to its strength—to the strength of its people.

And he knows that the guy can see them. He knows that’s probably what’s getting the guy to piss his pants.

There was something about a swordsman that drew visions of honor and chivalry but also a tremendous amount of fear. Kenjutsu itself was part of a philosophy, almost some form of meditation—well, _now_ it was. Now it was romanticized and glorified to mean something entirely different to its primary purpose: to train the body to kill. One could come up with a thousand words to describe a sword and a hundred more euphemisms to color its true objective, but it will always be what it really is: an instrument of murder.

So for as long as you practiced the ‘noble’ art of kenjutsu, you were honorable. A man of character, they said. But when the body count exceeded a hundred, then the line between human and demon began to blur. You’ve created a sword with an insatiable thirst for blood and you’ve broken some unspoken precept of exceeding a certain kill count. A hundred, apparently, was the magic number. By the time you hit a hundred, you discarded every shred of humanity and took on transformation into a demon.

Mangetsu thinks it’s funny that the number is so low: _only a hundred_. What did that make him now, then? He’s lost count a long time ago.

He’s only twenty minutes in, the majority of his arm inside the prisoner’s airways filling up his lungs, making them burn— and it already seems like the guy wants to talk.

The ANBU with him leans forward across the desk, fingers steepled. It’s the same question over again, for about the seventieth time. But this time, they get an answer once Mangetsu’s arm is out of the guy—It comes out amidst gasps and it’s barely audible. It’s also not exactly what they need—information they already knew was false and had gone over a while ago. A few tries later Mangetsu trails a finger down the man’s arm. Their captive knew that they knew, that they just wanted to make it all official and tie up the ends neatly. But he’s being a fucking _idiot_ and not being smart about it, still trying to save his ass even with his legs nearly falling out at the knees, still holding out hope that someone was going to come in and get him. Of course it gets Mangetsu thinking: _was_ someone going to come get him? Was it someone in the ranks that was pulling the strings? With everything going on in Kiri at the moment, though, Mangetsu wouldn’t be surprised.

He’s crouched by the end of the guy’s sentence and another attempt at repeating things a little clearer.

He’s crouched by the guy’s bleeding, shattered knees, water bullets having ripped through flesh and bone and torn it all apart. Mangetsu doesn’t prod, but feels around for where their man can still feel anything.

He stops at the guy’s thigh this time, grinning when he locates feeling in there.

“You gonna say that out loud, cupcake? Get it o’er with nice an’ easy? Or do ya wanna jus’ end up bein’ a talkin’ torso?”

The slight nod from the ANBU with him in the room meant that Mangetsu lets another bullet loose in the man’s leg. The trajectory’s controlled: Mangetsu makes sure it misses the femoral artery. And the bullet expands along its path, leaving a gaping exit wound that neither of them can see right now. But the blood pooling in the seat of the chair seems to confirm it.

And the scream makes their ears ring, the guy’s voice cracking in the middle of it, his jaws so wide open that he’s drooling down the sides.

“Eyy, jus’ like that.”  Mangetsu’s up on his feet again, a hand on the prisoner’s head in some kind of mock hair-ruffling. It makes the man flinch in utter fear—something that tugs another grin out of the Swordsman and a little bit of a throaty chuckle.

He dips his face lower, right next to the captive (who’s already broken a few of his own fingernails trying to grapple with the torture).

“Heh. Atta boy. Loud an’ clear, jus’ like that.” The edges of his mouth tug further, that grin nearly splitting his face in two. “Or ya get t’ squeal like a stuck pig.”


End file.
